“You’re perfectly right, Aristides. And now come along—he’s going to take his car.”
Thanks to Palin’s description, we had already located the German’s car. This was berthed under some trees, a little way off, and Carson, at the wheel of the Rolls, was waiting as close as he dared.
The man was easy to follow and led us at once to a decent, private house on the skirts of the town. The residence might have been his, for he left his car in the drive directly before the front door and then ascended the steps, to let himself in with a key.
“And very nice, too,” said Mansel. “I think we’ll come back when he’s gone.”
And so we did—at a quarter past three o’clock.
This time we came on foot and we went to the back of the house. In the kitchen, a nice-looking woman was ironing a dung-colored shirt with a bright red stripe.
“Good afternoon, madam,” says Mansel, raising his hat. “Surely it is not your duty to iron the shirt of the Boche.”
“No, sir,” said the woman. “It isn’t. But what can I do? When my husband was ordered to lodge him, the servants left. And so I must wait upon his highness, lest worse befall. I must prepare his breakfast and take it up to his room. Our salon is at his disposal; our bedroom is his. He never opens his mouth, except to complain or to threaten. I have, sir, to clean his shoes—and I am an Austrian woman, the wife of an Austrian lawyer and the daughter of an Austrian judge.”
“Madam,” said Mansel, “you have my sympathy. My friend and I are English—”
“Alas, sir, we fought against you.”
“Against your will. We know that it was the Boche that forced your hand. England and Austria were always friends.”
“You are very generous, sir.”
“I am speaking the truth, madam. And now please listen to me. We do not like your lodger, and if we have our way, he will not be your lodger very long.” The poor woman clasped her hands. “I tell you this, because I trust you, madam. Were you to breathe a word—”
“Sir, you can count upon me. Not even to my poor husband, will I mention that you have been here.”
“If you please,” said Mansel. “And now will you tell me his ways. The Boche, as a rule, is regular.”
“This one is not, sir. He is abroad to all hours—except at week ends. He never rises on Sunday before midday. Then he will dress himself up and go off in his car, and he always comes in about midnight. The gardener, whom we have to bribe to wash his car, insists that the mud which it bears is mountain mud. If he is right, then he almost certainly visits The Black Oak Inn, a well-known pleasure resort, some thirty miles off. That is his way on Sundays. On other days, we never know when to expect him, though his meals must always be ready, whether or no he returns.”
“I’m much obliged,” said Mansel. “You have the telephone?”
“Yes, sir.” She gave the number. “And, except on Sundays, I am always alone about noon.”
“I shan’t ring you up, if I can help it. One can’t be too careful today.”
“Alas, that is very true.”
“Have you a cousin, or someone, whose name I may use?”
“I have an uncle, sir, of whom I am very fond. His Christian name is Ludwig. Will you use that?”
“I will, indeed. I shall be Uncle Ludwig, and the Boche will be Cousin Paul. Will that be all right by you?”
“I will remember, sir. But you will not ring up if you can help it?”
“Only,” said Mansel, “in the last resort.” He put our friend’s hand to his lips. “Be of good cheer, madam. I make no promises. But I hope that, before very long, you will be rid of your guest.”
“God bless you both,” said the woman, wiping her eyes.
“The German curse,” said Mansel as we made our way off. “Two decent lives made hell by one of that filthy race. Discomfort, indignity, fear—those things are now their portion, thanks to the Boche. D’you ever see red, William?”
“I really don’t know,” I said. “When I get angry, I seem to get very cold. But I can tell you this. Gems or no, I don’t leave Austria until that lease is up.”
“Nor I,” said Mansel. “What’s Hecuba to us? But a sense of justice is something you can’t fob off. Never mind. From what she says I think we can make it Sunday.”
“I agree,” said I. “And then what?”
Mansel wrinkled his brow.
“Out of the castle,” he said. “The gems, I mean. Into the ground, perhaps. Then, at least, they’ll be safe. But how to get them out of the country, I cannot think.”
Our arrangements for Sunday were made with the greatest care.
To remove the gems from the chamber was easy enough, but two most important conditions governed the work. First, no one of the staff must suspect that any such operation was taking place; secondly, no slightest trace of our labor must be left for the eye of the Boche. It was these two provisos that made the exercise hard, for we could make no preparation, yet had to work to time, and when we had done, must carefully sweep and garnish where we had passed.
Mansel, who thought of all things, had asked John Ferrers to “wash the night watchman out” on the day that we had arrived; but we dared not start before midnight or finish later than five.
And there was much to be done.
Planks and trestles must be fetched from the carpenter’s shop, for the work would take twice as long unless we had a true stage. And tools and sand and cement must also be brought to the dungeon where we were to work. The mason’s tools were kept in the carpenter’s shop; and this, as luck would have it, was in the courtyard. But the sand and cement were kept at the foot of the postern steps.
The original sluice, which was really a slab of stone, still lay in the ancient kitchen, right at hand. There was a lamp in the chamber, the wire of which Ferrers had cut before he had relaid the stones five years before; but a reel of wire must be brought to run from a plug in the hall, and then the connection must be made. When the gems were recovered, they must be instantly washed, to rid them of any poison which might be there. This, in surgical spirit, of which we had a supply. Not till then could we put them in Ferrers’ safe. And then, as I have said, all must be swept and garnished against the eye of the Boche.
On the Saturday evening we sat in Olivia’s boudoir, debating, one by one, the points of our plan; Bell was without the door, and Carson was keeping an eye on Diana’s room.
“And what of Diana?” said Ferrers.
“I advise,” said Mansel, “that she should be left alone. All I should like to know is whether or no she leaves her room that night. And that we can learn by setting a mark on her door. If she should leave her room or even find us at work, it will really do no more than clear the air. We shall see that she does us no harm, for we shall allow her no chance of reporting to Friar. If she writes a letter, it doesn’t go to the post; if she feels she must leave the castle, she’ll be detained.”
(Here, perhaps, I should say that “a mark” may be “set on a door” by laying across the doorway a very fine thread. This is drawn tight six inches above the floor; whoever comes out will break it, without knowing what he has done, and the proof of his exit will lie in the broken thread.)
“I can’t believe,” said Olivia, “that she is in Friar’s pay. What do you say, Richard?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“I find it hard to believe that she would betray her host; but Friar may have pitched her some tale, which she has believed.”
“Speculation,” said Mansel, “is idle. Does everyone agree that she should be left alone—and permitted to rest in peace or to show her hand?”
We all agreed.
“Very good,” said Mansel. “I think that’s all. I wish the Boche had appeared, for I’m sure he will appear, and I think it just as likely he’ll come by night. The idea of surprise, you know.”
Olivia had a hand to her mouth.
“What if he comes tomorrow—tomorrow night?”
“He won�
��t be received,” said her husband. “No rot about that.”
“What’ll happen then?”
Mansel laughed.
“He’ll come back with reinforcements—four hours too late. Not that it really matters, for, sooner or later, the showdown will have to come. You are now in residence. If you allow him to come here whenever he likes, he will be sure that you have something to hide; for no English man or woman would tolerate treatment like that.”
“I entirely agree,” said I. “Palin was badly placed. But John, as the owner, must certainly call a halt.”
Olivia sighed.
“What a business it is,” she said. “D’you think we shall ever succeed in getting them out?”
“I think so,” said Mansel. “Friar would manage it somehow, and if he can, so can we.”
On the following evening we dined at nine o’clock, for we dared not advance the hour; but Olivia chose a short dinner, and we had left the table before it was ten. At eleven Ferrers and Palin went down with Bell and Carson to get cement and sand to the head of the postern steps. This, in several tarpaulins, for these would hold fast their contents and could be used in the dungeon as mortar boards. At midnight, Palin repaired to where the water was flowing into the woods. This flow would presently stop, and so would announce, to one who knew the secret, what we were about. So Palin was to keep watch, in case another was waiting to see what this telltale said. At midnight, also, Carson and Bell crept into the carpenter’s shop, and brought out the stuff we required to make our attempt. While they were thus employed, Ferrers produced the slab, which, after a deal of trouble, Mansel and I persuaded to play the part of a sluice.
So the dungeon fall was cut off.
By the time we were down there, Carson and Bell were already erecting the stage, and two minutes later, I was attacking the wall. This was easy to open. Before twenty minutes were gone, I had cut an opening through which a man could pass.
“A little larger,” said Mansel. “Another two courses out.”
I did as he said.
“Put these on,” said Mansel. “I’m not going to take any risks.”
I put on the mask and the gloves.
“And now for the light,” said Mansel, “or will a torch do?”
With that, he threw into the chamber the beam of his powerful torch.
“It’s more than enough,” said I, averting my eyes.
“I quite agree,” said Mansel. “It makes me feel like a ghoul.”
In the chamber were lying three corpses, so hideously lifelike, they might have been preserved. Each of them bore the signs of a hideously violent death. There was no actual stench, but a highly unpleasant odor that I can smell to this day. There were the three satchels in which the dead had been bestowing their spoil; and there were the three old bales, two of them empty and one of them, roughly half full.
“That’s right,” breathed Ferrers, behind me. “Some gems are still in that bale. The poison got them before they had taken them out.”
While Mansel lighted my movements, I entered the chamber of death.
I took up two of the satchels and gave them to Ferrers, who passed them to Carson and Bell. Then I turned to the bale which was still half full.
“For God’s sake be careful,” said Ferrers. “You’re going to do as they did.”
But I had nothing to fear, because I was masked and gloved. For all that, I went very gently. The look of my predecessors would have made anyone think.
I put a hand into the bale, to encounter what might have been bran; indeed, it made me think of a lucky dip. Almost at once my fingers touched something hard. Drawing this out, I found it a little object, tied up in a padded bag. I thrust it into the satchel, which still remained.
Eighteen more gems I brought out, each wrapped in its little purse; and I thrust them into the satchel as fast as I could.
While I was doing this, Carson and Bell had carried the other satchels into the ancient kitchen, there to take out their contents and lay them in rows of ten. They were on no account to uncover the gems.
“That’s the lot,” I said, as I held the bale upside down.
As I handed the satchel to Ferrers, I heard Mansel speak.
“Into the kitchen, John, and do your stuff. Don’t come back when you’ve done it, unless you’re short. If all the gems are there, send both of the servants back.”
I had meant to prove the bales and the debris, too, but Mansel would not let me.
“Wait for the count,” he said. “Those bales are dangerous. And come on out while you’re waiting—I don’t like that atmosphere.”
I was glad to get out of the place and onto the stage. Treasure chamber, perhaps, but charnel house, too. Indeed, to be frank, no duty I ever did was so repugnant to me; for the dead were dreadful to look on, and do what I would, my eyes seemed drawn to the features which agony had abused. They were rogues, of course, and had fairly come by their own; but I had a horrid feeling that I was despoiling them, and I cannot doubt that their ghosts were shrieking about me, because I had taken the fortune which they had so nearly won.
For, perhaps, three minutes we waited. Then Carson and Bell appeared.
“Mr. Ferrers’ compliments, sir, and all correct.”
“A hundred and twenty-seven.”
“Yes, sir. We counted them twice.”
Then Mansel went off to the kitchen, to wash the gems with John; and Carson and Bell mixed the mortar, that I could relay the stones which I had cut out.
Whilst I was thus engaged, John Ferrers brought back the satchels, into which he and Mansel had stuffed the now empty padded bags. I thrust all three through the aperture which remained; and soon after that, I laid the last stone in the wall. Then I sealed the chamber as fast as I dared.
By half past three, we had removed the stage and pulled up the sluice, and as I was washing my trowel, Mansel re-entered the dungeon to say that the gems had been cleaned and were all in the safe.
While the servants returned the gear to the carpenter’s shop, Ferrers and I took the sand and cement that remained to the head of the postern steps. There we found Palin waiting, to say that all was well. Leaving him and Ferrers to take the stuff down, I made my way back to the dungeon, to help to remove any traces of what we had done. There were footprints and grains of sand and little spills of cement. The slab was very wet and had to be dried, and the lens which had fallen out of a torch I had used—but did not seem to have been broken—had to be found.
We had mostly trodden the passage which so much attracted the Boche, but other passages led to the postern steps; these and a winding stair had all to be scrutinized, as well as the steps themselves up which the cement had come. Three times that night I changed the shoes I was wearing, for fear of leaving footprints on pavement which we had dried; and I think we were all in our socks before the business was done.
It was nearly a quarter to five, and I was counting the cloths which we had used to swab up the mess we had made. (We had brought twenty-four in a suitcase—and used twenty-two.) The servants, with Ferrers and Palin, were looking for the lens of my torch, and Mansel was holding a hand lamp, to light the scene. Though the door to the dungeons was shut, the rush of the water falling without the gates was loud enough to swallow a footstep, for we were not many feet from the outer wall. Indeed, the first I knew was that Mansel was smiling and bidding Diana good morning and asking her why she was up.
Diana made no answer, but looked at me.
“And you said you weren’t on the job?”
The scene was like that of some play.
The girl was framed in an archway that gave to a flight of steps; an excellent dressing gown swathed her from ankle to throat in powder blue; rose-colored pajamas and slippers were hiding her feet. Her thick, fair hair was tumbled, as though she had left her pillow without a thought, and a sleeve had fallen back from her wrist, because she had lifted an arm and was laying her slim, brown hand on the haunch on her right. Beyond her, Palin and Carso
n, before her, Ferrers and Bell, all of them wearing the havoc of heavy toil, were looking upon her in silence, not seeming to breathe.
“And you said you weren’t on the job?”
“I don’t think I did,” said I. “Anyway, I’ve finished now. Twenty-one, twenty-two. That’s right. Shut that case, Bell, and take it back to my room.”
“Very good, sir.”
“What have you finished?” said Diana.
“The job,” said I. “And now I’m going to bed.”
The lady looked at Mansel.
“Captain Mansel, what are you doing?”
“Nothing at the moment,” said Mansel; “but I’m just going to put out this light. John and Palin, we’ll have to let the thing go. Have you a torch, Diana? Otherwise, William will see you back to your room.”
Diana was speaking slowly.
“It must be something that you don’t want me to know.”
“To be frank, we’ve been to some trouble to keep it quiet.”
“But why?”
“So many questions,” sighed Mansel. “Now may I ask you one?”
“Of course,” says the girl, staring.
“How do you come to be here, in the ancient part of the castle, between four and five in the morning, when most people are abed?”
“I—I heard a sound,” said Diana. “And came to see what it was.”
The silence which followed this statement was painful, indeed, for the rush of the water without declared so very clearly that only a monstrous noise could have risen above its din.
Then Mansel put out his light, and I drew my torch. I threw its beam at her feet.
“Come, my lady,” I said; “I’ll see you back to your room.”
Since that of my torch was now the only light, the girl had to follow the beam or else be left in the dark, and two minutes later we reached the door of her room.
“What do you think of me, Richard?”
“I don’t know what to think. I know that you lied when you said that you’d heard a sound.”
“Then why d’you think I came down?”
“I suppose,” I said, “because Friar told you to.”
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 31